Braver Men Walk Away Read online

  After two weeks’ inductions and trade aptitude selection, after seemingly endless days of saluting and marching and being treated as though one were deaf as well as retarded, we were sent to Badajos, a barracks a couple of miles away. No one had seen it but everyone had heard ominous rumours. On a warm bright morning we marched towards the place which, for the next six weeks, we would call home. Spirits were high: we’d done two weeks, we were veterans already. Things were looking up.

  Unfortunately Badajos turned out to be exactly as advertised. It reared up stark and gaunt, a three-storey, brick-built Victorian edifice decked with full-length cast-iron balconies that reminded one of the interior of some US state penitentiary. The march halted. Spirits sank. Jokes petered out. We were standing and wondering and waiting when a body flew through the air and smashed hard into the gutter.

  It was, the army later said, an accident. A despairing young soldier had not decided to end it all by throwing himself off the topmost balcony. He had fallen, that was all.

  We slept fitfully, that first night. The next day we absorbed our new surroundings. Each barrack room housed thirty men, with a small bunk room – as at Parsons – for the permanent Staff Corporal. Beds were separated by about a yard. Communal washing and lavatory facilities were provided on each floor but, as the basins were devoid of plugs, ablutions were performed with difficulty. The shortage of plugs was matched by a shortage of lavatory doors. The lack of personal privacy worried us less than the army’s lack of organization: if they couldn’t organize some sink plugs and a few lavatory doors, then God help them if they had to organize another war.

  Indeed it was daily growing more clear that the army couldn’t organize anything. On one occasion, after being instructed on how to form three parade ranks, our Training Battalion was told by an NCO that our resulting formation was ‘one behind the other twice’. Soon afterwards I and another soldier were given the order: ‘You two form three ranks and stand still while I go and ’ave a look for another one.’

  Permanent staff NCOs tended to give orders with greater clarity, but they took about as much interest in us as a Ford assembly-line worker takes in the bits of motor car that pass before him. We had to be of the right shape, we had to fit, and we all had to move as one when slotted together. If you were bemused or bewildered there was no chance of asking, nor much point.

  By now the squad had been broken up into various groups. Grouping depended on which army trade had been deemed appropriate for each individual. For some reason most of my intake had been categorized as storemen, so they moved into Salamanca, a neigbouring barracks. I was the only one to be selected as a likely ammunition examiner and thus, for the remainder of my stay at Badajos, I trained with four potential officers – individuals whom the army clearly believed to be of superior stock.

  The drill sergeant stood with feet planted firmly apart, hands clenched behind his back and an expression of fury on his face. All around, the drumming of marching feet and the brisk echo of commands eddied on the air. Everywhere else, men were being turned into soldiers. Here though, we were being turned to stone by a sergeant with a basilisk stare.

  Finally his anger found voice. ‘A dis-ah-star! An utter bleedin’ dis-ah-star! Call yourselves soldiers? You are not fit to be in the Army! You are not fit to wear the King’s uniform! You are a bigger bleedin’ shambles than Passchendaele, what are you?’

  It seemed best to hope the question was rhetorical. If I had to say anything now, anything at all, the words would spill out on a tide of laughter. I kept my eyes on Sergeant Crabb. It meant I didn’t have to cope with the expressions on the faces of my companions: Henderson, Taylor, Williams and Clarkson.

  Certainly it had been a shambles but that was hardly our fault. The problem was obvious. For company drill to take place, first you have to have a company: a company consists of three squads, and a squad consists of thirty men. Our squad, however, consisted of only four potential officers and one potential ammunition examiner. Quite how you get five men to simulate what happens when ninety men are on parade, how you school them in all the necessary manoeuvres, was beyond me.

  But not to Sergeant Crabb. He had brought to the drill square five lengths of rope. One was issued to each of his five charges. He smiled in triumph as we gazed in bewilderment and even let pass unremarked Henderson’s question about the flute that was supposed to play while you did the Indian Rope Trick. I hadn’t said anything, inwardly debating whether this was to be some new form of torture or the Army’s idea of teaching us how to knit.

  But no. The ropes, Sergeant Crabb said, were not ropes at all.

  The ropes were soldiers.

  Ah.

  The ropes would take the place of the men what would ’ave been stood standin’ be’ind us ’ad there been anyone stood standin’ be’ind us.

  Well, of course, Taylor whispered in my ear. Why hadn’t we thought of this before?

  Then Sergeant Crabb interrupted: ‘You say something, Taylor?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I said, er, I said we’re learning the ropes, sir.’

  After that, disaster was inevitable. With the ropes trailing back behind us, we endeavoured to perform steps and movements consistent with the robotic efficiency of a well-drilled parade. Unfortunately my rope tangled with Clarkson’s, Williams got his wrapped around Taylor’s legs and Henderson fell over his. Repeated attempts to restore order only made things worse; ropes snaked and zigzagged in all directions and mine finally developed such an affinity for Clarkson’s that they welded together in a knot. Had the ropes actually represented eighty-five men, half the parade would have been hospitalized and the other half charged with indecency.

  Now we were being held responsible for the manifest impracticality of Sergeant Crabb’s theory. What, we wondered, would happen next?

  We found out a couple of days later. Sergeant Crabb happened to mention our behaviour to a friend of his, a Guards regimental sergeant major who occasionally called into the RAOC Sergeants’ Mess for a lunchtime pint. Crabb’s friend offered to get us into shape. This was bad enough but worse was to come: the friend turned out to be none other than RSM Brittain, the most senior, most feared RSM of them all, a man whose reputation was known throughout the army and Civvy Street alike.

  Brittain didn’t so much drill us as seek to test us to destruction. We doubled this way and that, jumped to every order, winced at the wound of his staccato commands. Within a short time we were gasping for breath and perspiring freely; by contrast, he stood ramrod straight, every inch a guardsman, uniform immaculate, his pace-stick grafted to his side.

  He confronted Taylor. ‘You are sweating, soldier! Why are you sweating?’

  ‘It’s … it’s hot, sir.’

  ‘Hot? You call this hot? This isn’t hot. I’ve just come from a place where it is one hundred and five in the shade!’

  Behind me Henderson muttered: ‘Centigrade or Fahrenheit?’ It was supposed to be a whisper. The RSM’s smile showed that it was not.

  ‘I think,’ he said softly, ‘we’d better do it all over again …’

  By the time that afternoon ended I was half a stone lighter. But at least I knew I could cope with anything now.

  When the six weeks of basic training were over I was sent to 28 Battalion Royal Army Ordnance Corps (RAOC) Bramley, School of Ammunition. The army was at last ready to let me get on with learning how to be an ammunition examiner.

  Bramley village was a small and sleepy community midway between Basingstoke and Reading; the camp lay on the village outskirts. It was dominated by Central Ammunition Depot (CAD) Bramley, a complex which contained so great a stock of ammunition that it extended out from the camp over an area of several square miles.

  Between the camp accommodation quarters and CAD was the School of Ammunition, where ammunition examiners were taught their craft. If I succeeded in my chosen vocation, my duties would encompass all technical matters concerning munitions and explosives held and used by the British army. This included
the safe storage, inspection, maintenance and, where necessary, the modification and repair of munitions and explosives. Also included was the proofing, either by firing or chemical testing, as well as the investigation of accidents and malfunctions.

  There was another important area of activity: with a few exceptions, the clearance of all stray munitions and the disposal of unserviceable stocks, either by breaking down, dumping at sea or destruction with explosives.

  Bramley was a turning-point in my life. It opened up fresh vistas, it brought a new and wider understanding of the science and technology of munitions and explosives, and it showed me that my childhood hobby was, in adulthood, going to be even more fascinating.

  Bramley was also civilized: an expanse of lawn separated the huts – single-storey cement-rendered buildings providing fairly spacious accommodation for twenty men. All that summer the scent of newly mown grass wafted in through the open windows.

  Weekends away nearly always took in the delights of London. Occasionally, though, I would return to Salisbury and visit friends. Nearing the end of my time at Bramley, I made such a journey and found myself in the company of another visitor. Her name was Daphne. Two years later she was to become my wife.

  I was now a member of a genuine squad, one of a group of thirty or so trainees from throughout the UK. However, it didn’t take long to discover that though the classroom was in the hands of professionals who wished only to teach their skills, the parade ground was in the charge of the same moulders of men I had had to endure at Badajos. Although the majority of the intake’s time was spent in the classrooms or ammunition repair workshops, the Company Sergeant Major daily exerted his baleful presence at the morning muster parade preceding our march to the classrooms. Presumably the point of this was to remind us that we were soldiers first and foremost. Morning parade was very much an inconvenient observance of ceremony and tradition while our heads were full of thoughts about the day’s studies and the practical work to come.

  There were times, however, when some fun was called for, and Hewitt seemed the ideal target. His high intellect was exceeded only by his pomposity. Looking at Hewitt, you saw someone aged eighteen going on eighty.

  Being a person of regular habits and a likely future major general, Hewitt’s evening schedule unfolded with military precision. First he carefully folded his copy of The Times. Then he carried it with him to the latrine block. Then he entered the cubicle and closed the door. It was always the same procedure and it was always the same cubicle.

  I don’t know who had the original idea of bringing some excitement to Hewitt’s dull life. A few moments before Hewitt arrived at his cubicle, a small pyrotechnic charge was concealed behind the overhead water cistern. By applying to the task all that we had so far learned at Bramley, a firing system was conceived whereby the pulling of the chain would cause the charge to go off.

  Hewitt arrived and as soon as his door closed myself and others in the plot crept into the adjoining cubicles and waited. Eventually Hewitt ceased his perusal of the Stock Market report and pulled the chain.

  The noise of the blast racketed around the block. I leapt up and grabbed the top of the partition, conscious not only of the rolling echoes of the explosion but also the inexplicable sound of a river rushing at full bore. Blown clear of its wallmountings, the cistern was nodding up and down on its pipe while its contents emptied over the trouserless victim and his copy of The Times.

  Urgent repairwork was now called for, but try as we might, nothing in the Bramley syllabus had prepared us for the task of mending lavatories which have sustained direct hits. Stoppages of pay for ‘Barracks Room Damage’ were particularly severe that week.

  My first trip abroad: special troop train from London to Harwich, ferry to the Hook of Holland, then British military train eastwards across the Continent. It was December 1950. I had come second in my course at Bramley and was now on my first overseas posting, to No. 1 Ammunition Inspectorate, Headquarters British Army of the Rhine (BAOR), Bad Oeynhausen, West Germany.

  Bad Oeynhausen was a spa town of stylish architecture with an atmosphere of discreet wealth. It seemed at first sight a place out of time, genteel, serene, a vision of the Europe of a different age. The hotels and many of the private houses had been requisitioned by the army to house BAOR HQ. The Ordnance Directorate, to which I was posted, was in one such former hotel, a place of high-ceilinged rooms and gilded lobby. Half a mile away my family had a requisitioned four-bedroomed house; I was given permission to live with them. With Christmas 1950 only a few days away it was a perfect time and a perfect place for a reunion.

  Major Phil Froude and Warrant Officer First Class Sam Birt were highly experienced ammunition-trained officers and close friends. Phil was tall, medium build and in his mid forties. Ten years younger, Sam was avuncular in bearing and attitude, round, jolly, a cricketing fan who was much sought after as an umpire. He could do The Times crossword in his head and is the only person I’ve ever met who regularly completed the awesome Sunday Times Ximenes crossword.

  As I settled into life in postwar Germany my perceptions of the army began to change. Here there was none of the crass stupidity which had seemed to be ingrained in military life. Instead there was a quiet professionalism. I was a part of this – watching, learning, being guided in the craft of the explosives man: conventional munitions disposal (CMD), unit ammunition inspection work, assisting with demolitions. I had a smart new uniform, with my AE’s badge proudly worn on the right forearm sleeve. Although I was the most junior AE in the whole of BAOR, neither Phil nor Sam ever treated me as anything other than a colleague to be welcomed and shown consideration.

  Despite their great experience and seniority, Phil and Sam were not without their sense of fun. One day shortly before Christmas, the Major called me into his office and announced, ‘Mr Birt has rung up with some story about his gooseberries being tied up with detonating cord. He suggested I might like to go round and have a look and bring you along with me. It sounds suspiciously like an excuse for a Christmas drink.’

  Later that afternoon we stood at the bottom of Sam’s back garden, glasses of beer in hand, contemplating his gooseberries. Much to my surprise, Sam had not been joking – the bushes really were tied up with detonating cord. The cord, which looks similar to plastic-covered washing-line, had obviously been in place for several years and was now hopelessly entangled with the overgrown bushes. This, however, was no problem since, in itself, the cord is safe to handle. It is only when set off by a detonator that it explodes with frightening force and speed, about 9,000 yards a second.

  Having proudly shown us the gooseberry bushes, Sam seemed content to let matters rest. Not so Phil. He finished his beer and said, ‘Right, young Gurney. We can’t leave Mr Birt’s garden in such a dangerous condition. Get me the demolition kit.’

  I watched in amazement as he connected up new detonating cord to the old and taped a detonator to it. I carried the demolition box back to the house where Sam was watching.

  ‘Is he really going to blow up your gooseberries, sir?’ I asked. Before Sam could answer, a searing flash and a gout of flame ensued and the bushes went up in smoke. The acrid fog danced and swirled; charred pieces of twig cracked and blazed all around.

  Phil looked pleased. Sam looked baffled and turned to Phil. ‘What,’ he demanded, ‘have you done to my gooseberries?’

  I was still thinking about this strange episode the following week when Sam materialized at my side. ‘Our Leader hath been on. Seems there’s a problem with his garden now.’

  ‘Gooseberries?’

  ‘No. Not gooseberries. A Panzerfaust.’

  ‘You’re kidding, sir.’

  ‘I kid you not.’ Sam shook his head. ‘I dunno, who’d be a gardener in Germany, eh?’

  We arrived at the Major’s quarters and made our way past lawn, shrubbery and greenhouse. The Panzerfaust lay a short distance away, half exposed in the frost-veined earth.

  A shoulder-fired anti-tank w
eapon, produced near the end of the Second World War when German resources were diminishing and German desperation was increasing, the bomb was devoid of such luxuries as foolproof safety mechanisms. The mechanism it did have was basic: you could arm the thing merely by dropping it a yard or so on to a hard surface. The Panzerfaust contained 3 pounds of explosive; once armed, it was extremely sensitive and therefore extremely dangerous.

  Sam and Phil briefly conferred. Neither of them stayed too close to the bomb. The Panzerfaust was not to be trifled with – and, in this case, certainly not to be moved. That left only one alternative: Sam would have to blow it up.

  The earth erupted like a mini volcano, dirt and smoke and debris soaring skywards on a crest of bright flame. The aftershock pummelled; noise blasted in a thundercrack cacophony which drummed at ground and sky alike and then finally receded in a tinkling glissando of breaking glass.

  When the smoke finally cleared Phil looked at the scene and then at Sam. ‘What,’ he demanded, ‘have you done to my greenhouse?’

  It was February 1951 and, though still on the strength of No. 1 Ammunition Inspectorate, I was now in Detmold with CRAOC 11 Armoured Division. I had a clearly defined role as Ammunition Examiner, one of a team responsible for the maintenance of the division’s ammunition.

  The duties appeared routine: unit ammunition inspection, demolition of unserviceable stocks and, should such a misfortune ever occur, investigation of ammunition accidents. If one went by the book, a junior NCO was not authorized to blow up anything unless under the control of a commissioned officer ‘where practical’. NCOs were carefully vetted by the more senior members of the Ammunition Inspectorate. If they were found to be competent and responsible they would be given local authorization to carry out demolitions. Here at Detmold, quartered in palatial ex-Wehrmacht barracks, I had that authority. Even so, my performance was carefully monitored; I understood that I was by no means being left on my own. Still, this was my first operational posting. Lance Corporal Gurney, Ammunition Examiner, was out in the field.